


Flamboyance

by Sarahtoo



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M, Post-Canon, with a nod to Dead Air
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-17
Updated: 2017-11-17
Packaged: 2019-02-01 21:42:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12713496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarahtoo/pseuds/Sarahtoo
Summary: At a rewatch of Dead Air a while back, I started thinking about how wonderfully Phryne does that Flamboyance Washing Powder ad, and I thought, why wouldn't the Flamboyance people agree?





	Flamboyance

“Hello, Jack!” 

Jack was happy that she couldn’t see him through the telephone line, because his smile was far wider than it should be. He’d left her sleeping that morning—a fact that he still found himself doubting, even hours later. She’d been back from London for a week, and last night, he’d gone to her house for a nightcap and ended up in her bed. It was all he could do to keep from beaming at the men on his staff.

“Miss Fisher,” he said, nodding at Collins to close his door now that he had the call. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I’m sorry to say that I need to cancel our plans for tonight,” she said, the regret in her voice obvious. Jack wilted a little—he’d been looking forward to reprising their night together. “I’ve been called to Ballarat on business, but I should be back in two days. Can we reschedule?”

“Of course,” Jack said, meaning it.

“Wonderful,” she replied tenderly. “I look forward to it. Wednesday, then? Eight o’clock?”

“I’ll be there,” he promised, closing his eyes for a moment, hoping that her voice would embed itself in his brain.

“I am sorry, Jack—I was looking forward to continuing our… conversation,” she said, and he laughed softly.

“As was I, Miss Fisher. But it will wait.”

“Mmm,” she agreed. “Oh! I had something else I meant to tell you last night—you’ll never guess what I found in the correspondence that’s been awaiting my return!”

“Inspector!” Collins’ voice was urgent, and he emphasized it with a quick double-tap on the door. “Sir, there’s been a murder.”

“On my way, Collins,” he said, placing a hand over the receiver before raising his voice. He lowered his voice again to speak into the phone. “I’m sorry, Miss Fisher, but I need to go. Will you tell me when I see you?” Jack stood, reluctant to let the phone go and lose the connection to her, but knowing that his duty was calling.

“Of course, Jack,” she assured him. “And if you run into trouble, I’ll help when I get back.” 

“I will do my best to muddle along,” he said with some humor, though he truly looked forward to being able to work with her again. He’d missed her presence in his investigations over the six months she’d been away.

“Until Wednesday, then, inspector,” she said.

“I’ll look forward to it,” he responded, then forced himself to put down the phone. 

 

* * *

 

As Jack and Hugh sat in the living room of their victim’s employer, a radio played softly in the background. Beethoven, Jack thought absently, his attention on the statement the elderly woman was giving.

“—he never said a word to me, detective,” she quavered, and Jack nodded gently, the last chords of the music ending just as her words did. 

“Mrs. Belinda, did you ever—” his attention was caught by a very familiar voice emanating from the radio.

_“Ladies, do you scrub your knuckles raw to get your husband’s shirts white and bright?”_

Glancing over toward the radio, Jack frowned. That was definitely Phryne’s voice, but she was in Ballarat, wasn’t she? Or on her way? He shook his head, doing his best to return his attention to his interview subject.

“—ah, did you ever see Mr. Vincent with this man?” He held out a photograph of the man they suspected had killed the old woman’s gardener.

_“What about the kiddies? Are their clothes looking faded and second-rate?”_

Jack cleared his throat, drowning out the next line. He needed to focus. He had no idea why Phryne was reprising her role as radio washing-powder shill, but he couldn’t concentrate with her voice purring in his ear.

“Mrs. Belinda, would you mind if I had my constable turn that radio off?” He kept his voice calm, but met Hugh’s eyes, instructing him with a jerk of his head to silence the dratted thing.

“Oh, of course not, inspector,” the old lady trilled. “I keep it on all the time. Fills the silence, you understand.” 

Blessing the quiet that fell, cutting Miss Fisher off mid-word, Jack nodded. “I do understand, ma’am. Now, where were we?”

 

* * *

 

Several hours later, Jack sat at his desk at the station, working to record the straightforward arrest of Mr. Vincent’s murderer. He could hear the radio playing quietly out at the front desk. Something modern, this time—Louis Armstrong, if he wasn’t mistaken. _Bless the Americans and their jazz,_ he thought, his toe tapping as he wrote.

When the song ended, the sound dropped to a murmur, and he heard Constable Arend say “Oh, turn this up!”

_“Ladies, listen to the news / No more Monday morning blues.”_

Jack’s head came up—could it be Phryne again? 

“I just love her voice,” Arend said with a sigh, and the other constable out front replied something in a murmur.

Jack swallowed hard, letting her voice wash over him. It couldn’t be Phryne, he assured himself. It must just be a very talented mimic, because she was out of town. And even if she wasn’t, she’d hardly be on the air at—he glanced at his watch—eleven o’clock at night. For just a moment, he let himself remember the evening when they sat side-by-side at the keyboard of her grand piano, duetting about what they both really wanted to do—misbehave. And that thought led to what they’d done to and for each other the previous night.

“That’s quite enough of that, constables,” he raised his voice, and the radio abruptly went quiet. “It may be late at night, but there’s no reason not to be professional.”

“Sorry, sir.” The constables chorused, chagrin in their voices.

Shaking his head at his own folly, Jack returned to his report. It would only be a couple of days till he saw her again. He needed to stop imagining her at every turn.

 

* * *

 

The next evening, Jack turned down another aisle at the grocer’s, picking a bar of his favorite soap off the shelf and adding it to his basket. He’d left work early because he knew he needed to stop off and pick some things up before heading over to his parents’ house for dinner. Pausing, he spied the soft blue box of Flamboyance washing powder a couple of shelves over. Lifting the box, he studied it, Phryne’s remembered jingle echoing in his head.

_“Flamboyance, Flamboyance, just a little Flamboyance.”_

Shaking his head, he smiled at his own foolishness, but dropped the box in his basket anyway. He needed milk for tea.

 

* * *

 

Dinner at his parents’ house was a weekly ritual. Since the divorce, his mother would bake a chicken or a roast and send the leftovers home with Jack, though he’d tried to tell her wasn’t necessary. She seemed certain that he was not eating well without a woman to cook for him. Truth was, he was a better cook than Rosie had ever been—her talents lay elsewhere, much like Miss Fisher’s—and he ate better now than he had when they were married.

“Get the cards, will you, Jack?” Pearl Robinson asked with a smile. His mother was a tiny woman, her head barely reaching Jack’s bicep, and he nodded, standing to lift the game box off of a shelf. His father, James, sat at the table, his unlit pipe between his teeth—Pearl didn’t allow him to smoke in the house—and Jack set the box at his elbow.

“Work is going well, son?” James, his blue eyes warm and the square jaw he’d given to Jack clenching on the handle of his pipe, opened the box and withdrew a set of playing cards and a small notepad. 

“Not bad,” Jack agreed. “Mostly simple cases right now. It’s a nice change.”

“And your Miss Fisher is back in town, I see,” Pearl carried a plate in from the kitchen, the cake that sat on it covered in a shiny meringue and topped with candied walnuts. Setting the plate on the table, she turned to the sideboard and took out dessert plates and forks. Expertly wielding a wicked-looking knife, she sliced off generous pieces, setting one in front of each of them.

Jack nodded, not even trying to correct his mother on the possessive she’d assigned to Phryne. She’d pried his feelings for Miss Fisher out of him shortly after Phryne had flown away to England; Jack had moped for a full week, unable to get enough money or leave to follow her as she’d asked. Pearl had told him to pull up his boots and write a letter; if he couldn’t follow her in person, he could at least correspond with her. And what a wonderful correspondence it had been.

“And how is she? Glad to be home?” Pearl turned to flip on the radio, and the rich strains of Brahms floated through the room.

“I think so,” Jack said, the corners of his mouth lifting in a secretive smile. His mother, of course, noticed it.

“Oh-ho, my boy,” she crowed, seating herself in front of her cake. “So that’s the way of it, is it?”

Jack lifted a forkful of walnut cake, shoving it into his mouth to avoid having to answer. His father chuckled as he dealt the cards. 

“Don’t try to snaffle me, Jack Robinson,” Pearl said, cutting her own bite of cake. “I can see that something has changed for you and that girl.”

“It’s nothing, mum,” Jack said, his attention caught by the ad beginning—again—on the radio. “I just… I… we talked, that’s all.”

“Well, as long as you’re happy, Jackie,” she said.

 _“Just one scoop of Flamboyance / and through your washing day you’ll dance.”_

There was no doubt about it. She was haunting him. Jack shook his head, taking another bite of cake as he gathered his thoughts.

“I am, mum,” he murmured. “Happier than I can remember being in a very long time.”

James nodded his approval of this statement as he laid down his pipe to take his own bite of cake. Pearl beamed.

“Now, can we just play cards? Please?” Jack smiled at his mother, who laughed and held up her hands in surrender before she picked up her cards and efficiently fanned them open.

“Maybe you’ll bring her to dinner sometime, though,” she said, and Jack groaned. Deep inside, though, he felt the possibility like a warm weight in his stomach.

“Maybe,” he said, trying to be noncommittal. But he smiled as he took another bite of cake.

 

* * *

 

The next afternoon, Jack pushed through the doors of the morgue, looking for Mac and her findings on the body that had been discovered down at the docks that morning. Big-band music played softly in the background, and Mac leaned close to the corpse on her table, examining the wound on the man’s head.

“Doctor Macmillan,” Jack began, but she held up a hand.

“Cause of death appears to be asphyxiation,” she stated calmly. 

“What?” Jack stopped, looking down at the body. “So someone bashed him over the head and then smothered him somehow?”

“I’m guessing by hand,” Mac said, her hand hovering over the man’s nose and mouth. “See the bruising here and here?” She pointed to the man’s cheeks. “He was already unconscious—whoever finished him didn’t have to work very hard.”

“And the bruising isn’t large—more the size of your hand than of mine.” Jack set his own hand over the man’s face, careful not to touch his skin. “So perhaps our murderer is a small man, or even a woman.” Setting his hands on his hips, he regarded the body with interest, running possible suspects through his mind. “All right, that gives me a place to—” 

He broke off as the cheerful brasses of the music transitioned into that damned advertisement. Lifting his head, he searched the room for the radio, his brows lowering in consternation.

_“Flamboyance, Flamboyance, just a little Flamboyance.”_

“What in the hell?” Mac turned to look at the radio herself, then exchanged a glance with Jack. “I thought Phryne was out of town?”

“She is—or has been, and yet I’ve heard that damned jingle a half-dozen or more times over the last two days.” He smiled a little sheepishly. “At least it’s not just my imagination. I thought I was going mad.”

“Not just your imagination, no,” Mac murmured. “That woman is full of surprises.”

“She is, isn’t she?” Jack could hear the fondness in his tone, and he shrugged when Mac laughed.

“This is a mystery you’ll have to ask her about when you see her,” Mac said, humor lacing her voice. “Tonight, I presume?”

Jack tilted his head slightly, lifting one eyebrow. He could feel the smug smirk stretch his lips, and he couldn’t regret it.

“Right. Let me know if you find anything else, doctor,” he said, turning to leave. “I think I know where to start now.”

“Good luck,” Mac called as he left the room, and he wasn’t sure whether she meant with the case or with Miss Fisher. Chances were, he’d need both.

 

* * *

 

Jack lounged back on the tufted chaise in Phryne’s parlor, his belly full, his spirit settled, watching his lover—his _lover_ —pour him a whiskey. She wore her black trousers and camisole, plus a short gold-lace jacket, and he admired the way she moved as she crossed over to him and handed him the glass before settling down beside him, her hip snug against his. He smiled at her and she leaned in to press a lingering kiss to his lips.

“Welcome back, Miss Fisher,” he rumbled, lifting one hand to stroke her arm. 

“It feels good to be home,” she replied, raising her thumb to his lips to wipe away the lipstick her kiss had left behind. “Did any interesting cases come up while I was away this time?” 

“Nothing terribly exciting, no,” Jack said, “though there was something… odd that I cannot account for.”

“Oh?” Phryne snuggled against his side and looked up at him, lifting her whiskey to take a sip. 

He wrapped his arm around her, settling his hand on the small of her back and enjoying her slight weight. His fingertips slid beneath her lace jacket to rest on the silk of her camisole, his thumb tracing small patterns in the hollow of her spine.

“Mmm,” he agreed, taking a drink of his own whiskey. “It was the strangest thing. You remember our case at 3JH, and the washing powder jingle you sang on the air? I kept hearing it, seemingly everywhere I went.”

Phryne let out a peal of delighted laughter. “Did you? That was the news I tried to tell you before I went to Ballarat, Jack. I came home to an offer to make a recording of that particular jingle, so that Flamboyance could distribute it to all of the radio stations.” Her smile was delighted. “Apparently, their sales spiked after the original aired, and they’d been trying to get in touch with me for months.”

“Well, that explains it. I thought I was going mad, hearing your voice at every turn.” He smiled down at her. “Lovesick fool that I am.”

“Poor Jack,” she said, pushing up to her knees and swinging her leg over his to sit on his lap. “Did it make you miss me, darling?” She laid her forearms on his shoulders, holding her whiskey glass behind his head, and grinned down at him. “Was it very distracting?” Leaning forward, she set her cheek beside his and sang softly, breathily, into his ear.

“Ladies, listen to the news / No more Monday morning blues…”

The song became a shriek of laughter as Jack ducked to push his shoulder into her stomach, his arm wrapping securely around her thighs as he stood up with her flung over his shoulder.

“Jack!” He could tell by the delight in her tone that she was enjoying this, and he shifted his arm to lay one hand over her bottom, holding her securely.

“If you’re going to tease me, Miss Fisher,” he growled teasingly, “then you’ll have to pay the forfeit.”

Phryne pressed her hand to his back, looking down at him as he exited the parlor and made his way up the stairs to her bedroom.

“A forfeit, you say?” He felt her voice as an additional stroke to the hand she slid down his back. “I’m intrigued.”

Tilting his head up to smile at her, Jack squeezed her bottom and took a swig of his whiskey. “Better finish your drink, Miss Fisher,” he said. “I intend to welcome you home properly.”

“An excellent plan, Jack,” she replied softly. As they passed through the door to her boudoir, he angled her so that she could shove the door closed behind them. And then he got to work.


End file.
